


All The Small Things

by aeon_entwined



Category: Actor RPF, The Avengers (2012) RPF, Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Bribery, Hiddleston is like really devious, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/aeon_entwined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tom wants Chris to get a Twitter, dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Small Things

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a whim, and mostly because I do what I fucking want. Also because I can totally see Tom pulling all sorts of ridiculous shit in order to bribe Hemsworth into getting a Twitter. Alas, this should not be taken seriously in any way, shape, or form. Purely a work of fiction. As per usual.

His mobile goes off at somewhere close to one in the morning, the shrill ringing jerking him out of his concentration on the script in his hands.

“Yeah?” Tom flips the phone open without bothering to look at the caller ID, already well aware that anybody calling this late is either his agent or one of his closer friends.

“Hiddleston!” Chris Hemsworth’s voice almost seems to reverberate over the phone, perfectly in sync with the man’s oftentimes boisterous nature. “Congratulations on the nomination, mate!”

Tom smiles to himself, wondering where in the hell his co-star is to be this energetic at god knows when in the morning. “It’s really about time you got a twitter, Chris. I already congratulated you in a very eloquent manner on there, but clearly, as you don’t have one, you can’t see it.”

Chris laughs on the other end, low and gravely as per usual, and Tom hears what he thinks might be a fridge door slamming shut. “The hell are you eating? Or drinking?”

“’m drinking a beer. A shitty one. Got a problem?”

“No, no. No problem. Just asking,” Tom chuckles, shaking his head as he flips idly through his script now that his concentration is elsewhere. He leans back in the plush chair he selected for his evening “studying”, stretching his legs out across the carpet in front of him. “So? How’s _SWATH_ going?” he makes sure to emphasize the rather hilarious acronym for Hemsworth’s latest project. “Tell me all the gory details.”

Chris coughs on the other end; clearly having accidentally inhaled a bit of his aforementioned drink, but gamely picks the conversation up without dropping a beat. He talks about stunt practice, getting trained in how to properly wield an axe, he elaborates on the infamous incident of getting punched by Kristin Stewart, and then goes on to explain how the wardrobe folks spent several days arguing over how much leather vs. cloth his costume should end up having.

Tom allows his concentration to drift in and out, oddly glad to just be able to listen to Chris’ voice. It’s soothing, in its own way, which is pretty nice since he’s a bit on edge over his upcoming stage project. Tom rubs his fingertips over his stubble, pondering an idle thought for a moment.

“What’re you wearing?” he says, interrupting Chris just as he’d been prepared to go into detail about how much he sweats under the weight of his costume.

“…. what.”

“I said, what’re you wearing?”

“Um …” Chris seems to fumble with an answer, and Tom can almost see him glancing down at himself to take stock. “A stunt team shirt, cargo shorts, and socks. Why?”

The outfit is easy enough to envision, mostly thanks to the time they’ve spent both on-set and off for _Thor_ and _The Avengers_. Tom smiles, exhaling loosely as he settles further down in the chair, his script falling off the arm of it to the floor. “Get a twitter and I’ll get you off. Right now.”

There’s nothing but silence on the other end for a few moments, but Tom can hear Chris both breathing and continuing to drink his beer. At least he hadn’t stunned the man into complete inactivity.

“Right old-fashioned romantic, aren’t you?” Chris mutters, though if he listens closely, Tom can almost pick up the sounds of the Australian throwing himself into what’s probably that ridiculous overstuffed chair he remembers from visits to their respective trailers during _Thor_.

Tom cradles his mobile with his shoulder for a moment, freeing both his hands to slide down to his hips, toying with the waistband of his boxer shorts. “You know you love it. Besides, I’m supposed to be unpredictable.”

Chris snorts, and there’s the distinct sound of a belt buckle unlatching over the line. “You’re a right asshole is what you are.”

Tom grins triumphantly, tugging at his boxers until he can get them down around his knees, freeing himself up to spread his legs enough to make the position comfortable. He palms his already half interested cock, hissing at the sudden pressure.

“Are you always this horny? Or is it just when I happen to be available to chat?” Chris hums, the distant squeaking of the ridiculous chair letting Tom know that he’s probably working himself at a slow, easy pace.

“Mmm. Not always. It’s nice when you call, though,” he grins slyly, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as Chris laughs again, voice gone slightly lower.

For a few moments, they just breathe in tandem. It’s easy to sync up together, establish something close to a matching rhythm. Tom’s pretty sure Chris wasn’t as surprised by his challenge as he’d originally acted.

“So, you ready to ‘break the Internet’, or whatever it is you called it, once May hits?” Chris rumbles, his voice roughened up to an almost impossible degree (something Tom occasionally thanks whatever deities are up there for).

Tom exhales a sharp laugh, twisting his wrist once before thumbing over the head of his cock, resulting in a full-body shudder. “Watch and learn, my friend,” he answers, only slightly breathless. “This Jedi will teach you the ways of the web in no time.”

“You are absolutely ridiculous. I’m never trusting you with anything private again,” the eye roll in Chris’ tone is almost audible, which makes it even better.

“This was my bet and you agreed to it. You’re getting a twitter,” Tom grunts, his abdominal muscles spasming briefly as he squeezes the head of his cock. “Fair’s fair.”

There’s another few moments of silence, followed by almost identical grunts on both of their parts. Then, the other end of the line goes suspiciously quiet.

“Tom,” Chris sounds impossibly cool and collected, and for a second, Tom hates him. “How close are you?”

He growls, baring his teeth despite the fact that there’s no one else in the room and Chris is however many thousand times away. “Close enough,” he manages.

“Fist your cock, Tom. Do it for me. Right now.”

“Fucking bastard,” Tom hisses, but despite his misgivings at letting the tables abruptly turn against him, he wraps his fingers around his length and squeezes, effectively preventing himself from coming before Chris gives him permission.

“Mm. Pretty much,” Chris moves again, the damn chair squeaking everywhere in the background as Tom closes his eyes and tries to imagine the look on the Australian’s face; smug, confident, smarmy as hell.

“Now get your hand up under your shirt,” how Chris knew that he’s actually wearing a shirt, Tom will never know, but it was a lucky guess. “Rub your tits until you start making noises. Then you can stop.”

He does so, dragging the pad of his thumb over one nipple, then the other, stifling a sharp gasp as the skin tingles and flares hotly beneath the ministrations. When a pathetic-sounding whimper escapes his throat once both nipples are terribly over-sensitized, Chris orders him to stop.

“Chris, what the hell-“ Tom gets about halfway through his breathless demand when the Australian cuts him off.

“Fist your cock tighter,” Chris instructs, his voice gone slightly less steady. “Now jerk yourself as fast as you can.”

Tom obeys without questioning, stroking himself as fast as he dares. “Ah .. ah .. _ah fuck_ -“

He doubles over as he comes, bright starbursts dappling his vision as he hears Chris groaning through his own release over the line.

Tom collapses back against the plush armchair, breathing heavily as he works himself through the aftershocks, splaying his come-smeared hand on his stomach once the ministrations start hurting. Christ … when did he end up being the one with puppet strings attached to his limbs?

“Well … looks like you won the challenge,” Chris hums nonchalantly, his natural accent coloring the post-coital tease gloriously.

Tom grins to himself, though he feels far more slow and sated than he was expecting. “Gonna get a twitter now, you twat. If you don’t, I’m making one and filling it with tweets about your cock.”

“Uh huh, sure you will,” Chris chuckles, the sound of a fly being zipped again traveling over the line. “I’ll link you tomorrow. I’ve got to finish up with some post work tonight.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Tom warns in an undertone, though he smiles when he can easily envision Chris flipping him off on the other end. “Take care of yourself, alright? See you at the premiere or something, yeah?”

“You got it, Hiddleston,” there’s something fond in Chris’ voice, and Tom decides he likes it. “And likewise, you cad.”

When the call ends, Tom tosses his mobile onto his mattress, then sinks back into the armchair. He grins up at the ceiling, feeing unaccountably pleased with himself and the universe in general. Life is good.


End file.
